Trance
by kuchee
Summary: An injury leaves Kyle in an awkward predicament, and Stan makes him an offer he can't find a good reason to refuse. Style. Shaving fluff.


rated T for language only, it's pure fluff

* * *

"I could do it if you want."

The abrupt offer catches Kyle off guard. "What?"

Stan smiles. "Your face, I mean. If you're having that much trouble."

Kyle's eyebrows rise suddenly in understanding. He mentally curses himself for spending the last five minutes complaining about his arm and all the menial tasks made harder by its temporary break from action. His right arm, which is currently in a sling across his chest, thanks to Ike's baseball bat of all people and things.

He doesn't know what's the more pathetic predicament - getting saddled with a sling for a month courtesy of his teenage brother's weed-induced paranoia, or being so shitty with his non-dominant hand that he'd rather sport a stubbly (and he'll admit, still patchy) mess on his face than risk slicing it up.

There's nothing even wrong with his arm, dammit. It's his collarbone, which does hurt, but doesn't seem to be affecting the rest of his movement much anymore. Though it's true he hasn't tried lifting his arm to his face yet.

And then there's this strange offer.

"You- you wanna shave me?"

Stan nods.

"Uhm, that's not necessary," Kyle says quickly, wishing he could hold the unsure laugh that follows.

"That's okay," Stan says. "I just thought - you know, if you wanted to do it without carving up your face." He smirks, but it doesn't quite have the right effect - betrays something more earnest about the proposal than Kyle would have thought.

Kyle looks away, rolls his eyes anyway. "I'm sure I can do a decent job."

It's Stan's turn to quirk his eyebrows apparently. He shrugs, teasing, "Well, if you think your left hand could do a better job than me- "

"No, not that," Kyle starts, but suddenly Stan isn't meeting his gaze anymore. He's looking anywhere else, behind Kyle's head, at the floor in front of his feet. Maybe it's because he regrets offering in the first place, and Kyle can think of a multitude of reasons why - because he was only joking, or only asking to be polite, or because he's realised that it's a weirdly private thing to offer (it's not like his hands are chopped off), a _weird_ thing, in fact -

"So you don't _trust_ me?"

Or that. Fuck Stan for pulling that card. He should have seen it coming.

"Not with a blade to my neck, dude."

Stan's face briefly draws with mock indignation and Kyle has to bark a laugh - but his eyes are somehow still asking the question, and Kyle feels suddenly, strangely compelled to give him a proper reply.

Stan holds up his hand to stop him. "It's fine, dude," he laughs. "But I was offering genuinely."

Kyle knows that much, if he really considers it. The... _things_ Stan's been offering him lately - always genuinely, always straight to the point; and Kyle knows him well enough to tell that it doesn't come from a place of debt.

That's what he was worried about, at first. That Stan would feel like he owed Kyle something for not acknowledging something deeper in the friendship between them, for not _knowing_ how Kyle felt about him all those years growing up. They're still so new at this relationship thing, no matter how natural it feels. But it turns out the only baggage is Kyle's own, and even then, it's just barely there. It's amazing how little any past miscommunications seem to matter now that they're actually together.

There's only _one_ kind of situation that can make Stan nervous over what he wants to say and do like this, regardless of the (thrilling) fact that he'll say or do it anyway. It makes Kyle feel full and strange and so - loved. It's weird.

He wishes he had that kind of self-assurance about these things.

He doesn't really get why Stan would want to do _this_ in particular, but okay, he does need the help. What's the harm?

"Fine. If you cut me I'll murder you, though."

Stan grins at his surrender. "Wanna go right now? Bathroom?"

He's a little taken aback, honestly. That's hardly any time at all to prepare himself for that kind of scrutiny/potential mutilation, but a bigger part of him knows that he's used up all the time he should ever really have on mentally abstracting about Stan-related things. And this stubble kind of itches.

"Alright, sure. Let's go."

So that's how they end up, Kyle sitting on the toilet cover, his shaving stuff on the ledge next to him, and Stan hovering just across.

Stan tilts his head, "Okay, how do you want to do this -?"

"Well, I usually shave after I shower, so... um..."

Fuck, why does he feel so awkward? Maybe he _shouldn't_ let Stan do this for him?

Kyle trusts him, obviously, but it is definitely a weird time for them right now, for himself especially. This sudden high the past few weeks that honestly feels like an out of body experience. He hasn't gotten used to it, all the kissing, the touching, the sex and even fucking cuddling _-_ all so deliberate, so _intentional_.

He's just overwhelmed. A quick shave sounds laughably inconsequential in the middle of all that, but in a way it's too private, maybe too much right now.

Stan doesn't miss a beat. "It's fine. You got a small towel or something like that?"

Kyle swallows down the feeling instantly and looks around. Nods towards his mother's meticulously arranged hamper, and leans over to rummage through it until he finds a face towel. He grabs it out, but Stan takes it from his grasp before he can think about running it under the water.

"Sit down."

So _that's_ how it's going to be. Kyle can't help a laugh, and he knows he's blushing. "Dude, the rest of my body _works_."

Stan looks sheepish. "I know, but I want to do it."

Kyle relents, rolling his eyes. He doesn't know why Stan is being weird, doesn't know if he feels babied or not, and doesn't know why the blood won't leave his fucking face.

He offers up his face a moment later when Stan brings the towel to him anyway, since it's too late to back out now, feeling a little silly. Stan smiles conspiratorially at him as he carefully places the towel over Kyle's face.

Kyle spends the next few minutes sitting idly while Stan goes to find a chair to bring and sit on, and he's thankful not only for the warm towel masking the heat of his face, but the time it gives him to inwardly compose himself. Still, it feels like way too soon when Stan is there in front of him again. He motions for Kyle to remove the towel, and then he's just sitting down across from him - and observing. He begins carefully pressing his fingers along Kyle's jaw.

He answers the question before Kyle can ask it. "Mapping your face," he says, almost clinically, but a quick glance up betrays the playfulness in his eyes. "Should have done that first, probably."

Kyle swallows. He feels Stan's fingers examining under his chin now and fuck - if this felt like anything besides Stan just stroking his neck; thoroughly, _tenderly_ \- he might have been fine, but.

He clears his throat. Okay. He won't give him the satisfaction.

Kyle closes his eyes. Hears the clink of the can of shaving gel against ceramic, and a moment later, the faint fizz and eventual slickness as Stan lathers up the foam in his hands. His eyes open again at the tickle of foam against his chin. Stan spreads it up and around, eyes gentle and serious like it's the most important thing in the world to lather up Kyle's face.

Something warm and prickling coils itself around Kyle's spine, not arousal, not even plain desire, and definitely not nerves.

He watches Stan wipe down his hands, then bring up the plain little disposable razor and rinse it. It's strangely hypnotic to follow his movement, the silence and stillness around them making even the most routine gestures feel heightened somehow.

"Ready?" Stan's voice is quiet, like he knows not to disrupt whatever kind of tranquility is suddenly floating between them.

Kyle squints at the blade, not really wanting to meet his eyes, because he can sense by his voice how soft they probably are right now, has been at the receiving end of that kind of look _so much_ lately.

He mutters, "Yeah. Be _careful._ "

"I will," is the automatic reply - Stan seems like he isn't really listening anymore, only shifting closer and peering at his face. His free hand grabs under Kyle's chin gently, angling his jaw. Stan is so close. Somehow Kyle didn't manage to envision how _close_ you might need to be to someone to be able to shave them.

He can feel the warmth of Stan's presence, his steady eyes and steady breath by his ear; gently diffused by distance. Kyle thinks it's better to close his eyes for this part.

He exhales on the first slide of the razor, not realising until this moment how much he had been holding his breath unconsciously.

Stan uses short strokes. His grip is firmer now on Kyle's jaw, and Kyle can only hear the thin drag of the razor, and his breathing, consistent; along with Kyle's own, trying and sometimes failing to keep that same rhythm.

Stan does one side of his face like that, then drags his chair across the tiled floor to do the other.

"Okay so far?" he says softly, more to the space in front of him than to Kyle.

Kyle swallows around a ' _mhm_ ' in his throat, nodding minutely when he sees that Stan has moved the blade away from him for a response.

He lets Stan shave the other side, busying himself with listening and feeling. Each cool stroke of the razor against his skin, each firm press of fingers, and the intermittent sound of water sloshing. And of course, the keen awareness of Stan's presence, warm and palpable like something he could touch.

His head is heavy with calm, he realises, blinking languidly at Stan, who doesn't even notice he's being watched.

Stan's whole posture is radiating concentration. His face is set and focused. Eyes flitting occasionally, scrutinising every inch of skin he covers. Kyle gulps, almost feels more exposed with this than with anything else they've done.

When Stan pauses to rinse off the razor again, Kyle takes the few seconds to blink and shift in his seat. He's pretty sure he could actually fall asleep now, despite the hard ceramic surface beneath him. He's glad that it isn't _completely_ comfortable.

"Neck," Stan's voice is low, volume and otherwise.

Already?

Kyle lifts his head up with effort, feels fingers tugging the surface of the skin below. He makes his voice work.

"I _swear_ if you-"

"I won't, asshole," Stan laughs, a little nervously. At least he's nervous. Kyle's not going to tell him that he's just been playing along since the beginning, that he would trust Stan to do it anyway. _That's_ not his issue here.

Another minute or two, then Stan does his chin and above his lip, careful as ever. It's a pretty quick job.

"You're... surprisingly good at being still." Stan smirks, expectantly. As if Kyle is going to grace that with a reply.

He wipes off the remaining slivers of foam from Kyle's face. Kyle feels his fingers checking his face methodically, followed by more lather.

The second time goes quickly. Really quickly, and it might be because it's more cursory anyway, or maybe Stan has a better hang on it this time around. Or Kyle's just _calm_ , enjoying it too much to feel it pass anything other than quick, like blinking in the early morning only to find an hour vanish.

"You're almost done," Stan murmurs without pausing his movement. He fucking _murmurs._

A few more sporadic strokes, then he withdraws the razor.

Kyle blinks and looks up to his eyes - asking permission to get up and rinse off - and the softness and fuzziness he feels inside his own head is mirrored perfectly in Stan's expression. He won't look away.

When he leads Stan into a shared smile, there's an agreement there. Some kind of acquiescence from him to Stan.

Stan clears his throat, gets out of the way.

Even the cold water does little to wake Kyle from his haze - this whatever the fuck that has been cast over him, over them both apparently.

"I can do it," he says for the sake of saying it, making no move to stop Stan taking the towel from him once they've dried their hands. Stan closes around him again and pats his face down with the towel, gentle in a way that might irritate him normally, or from someone else.

Kyle needs to do _something_ so he doesn't get lulled to sleep right here, right into a fucking towel and into Stan's chest. He contorts his face, touches it with his fingertips for some feeling other than the pleasant tingling. A sting or a burn.

Ah.

"I think you nicked me right here." He touches the spot. Stan doesn't look impressed.

" _One_ nick?"

Kyle feels around a little more. " _Two_ , I think." Then, "Fine, you did a pretty good job."

He tries to will the smile off his face. It doesn't happen. "A really good job. Thanks."

He's matching Stan, he notices, voice low as a whisper despite their teasing. No need to disrupt this _thing_ around them yet, and especially not the strange placidity inside his own head.

Stan makes a noise between a laugh and an exhale. There's a little smugness in his face, but he looks coy, for some reason. Shy in a way that makes Kyle want to kiss the expression right off, but he doesn't quite trust his body to make any movement correctly in this moment.

Stan motions toward their seats, following him back into their position. He flips open a lid - aftershave lotion - and rubs the stuff between his hands. Kyle finds himself closing his eyes again before he can help it. He's expecting slick hands against his face.

He's not expecting lips against his jaw, a quick line of feather-light kisses. The tickle of lashes against his cheek, disappearing as fast as it comes.

His eyes flutter open in surprise, to face Stan's infectious smile as he brings his hands up to rub the lotion in. His thumbs brushing up, along the jawbone, and down into the hollows of Kyle's neck, his heavy head dipping down with the movement. Then carefully along the tendons that reach down to his collar.

"There you go," Stan says quietly, but his hands aren't really leaving Kyle's neck.

Kyle nods, blinking fast. Finds himself biting down a bashful smile. "Thanks. Seriously. I really - it was really good." He says again, feeling stupid and sleepy and grateful.

Stan beams, as if he can't read the gratitude that Kyle knows is all over his own face.

Kyle pulls him close as best as he can with one arm, mumbles an "I love you, dude" into his neck. He feels Stan nuzzle into his shoulder, arms squeezing around his frame, and it doesn't help the melted state of his brain at all.

Kyle pats his back, despite every bone in his body telling him to just sit here and meld into Stan's arms, "Okay, now get up, otherwise I _will_ fall asleep."

* * *

Let me know if you found this relaxing in any way, I was really aiming for that :)


End file.
